Chapter 9
CLARA
The fire doesn’t die with drama. It doesn’t roar or snap or spit one last shower of sparks like it’s trying to go out in style. It just fades, steady and stubborn, until the logs collapse inward and the glow becomes nothing more than red veins in the dark.
I sit up on the rug, pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and try not to curse at the useless heap of ash that’s supposed to be keeping me alive.
My breath fogs in front of my face, and the draft sneaks in around the window seams like it’s mocking me for believing this lodge could fight a blizzard on anything more than borrowed time.
Across the hearth, Dralgor stirs. He pushes himself up on one elbow, the shadows turning his face into something carved and serious.
He doesn’t speak right away, and of course he doesn’t panic.
He just studies the embers like he’s calculating their last ounce of worth, and when he finally looks at me, his voice is steady as steel.
“It won’t hold until morning.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together hard enough to make them sting. “We’re already losing ground.”
I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out brittle.
My toes are numb, my nose is cold, and the only thing keeping me from shaking is sheer stubbornness.
I glance at the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth.
It’s gone. Every last log burned down to nothing while the storm outside kept pounding the walls.
I want to cry, but I’m too angry to waste the water.
I push to my feet, wrapping the blanket like armor. “I’ll check the shed. Maybe there’s more.”
He’s already standing before I take two steps, a wall of shadow and frost, his hand closing around my arm. “You won’t open that door. The drift’s over four feet, and the wind would take you off the porch before you made it to the shed.”
I jerk my arm free, glaring up at him even though he’s right. “So what’s your solution, then? Just sit here and wait to freeze?”
“I’ll manage,” he says simply. “You, on the other hand—”
“I’m not made of glass, Veyr.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just watches me with that unreadable stare of his, like he’s weighing choices I can’t see. The silence stretches, the storm howls, and the cold sinks deeper into my bones until I can’t ignore the truth sitting between us.
The fire’s gone. The couch is too far from the chimney to hold heat. The only thing left with enough warmth to outlast the night is the bed upstairs. My grandmother’s bed.
I close my eyes, press my palms against them, and mutter, “I’m going to hate myself in the morning.”
When I drop my hands, his brows are raised, the faintest flicker of curiosity breaking through the stoic mask.
“There’s one bed,” I say flatly. “And it’s barely big enough for two if we don’t move. You want to live through this storm, you’re going to have to swallow your pride and share.”
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t start with me.” My voice cuts sharper than I intend, but I don’t stop. “You’re not some iron statue, and I’m not about to dig your frozen carcass out of the rug at dawn. This isn’t about comfort. It’s about survival.”
For a second, I think he’ll refuse just to prove a point. But then he nods once, short and sure, like a man who’s used to making decisions with consequences. “Fine.”
The stairs creak under our weight, the old wood protesting each step as if it knows what kind of trouble I’m walking myself into. The bedroom smells like cedar and mothballs, the quilt still folded at the foot of the bed the way Gran always kept it.
I hesitate at the door, staring at the frame carved with little stars and pine boughs, the same one I used to trace with my finger as a child when I’d sneak in to curl against her side during thunderstorms.
It feels wrong, bringing him here. But I don’t have a choice.
I shove the thought down and light the lantern on the dresser. The flame flickers across his face as he surveys the room with the same detached focus he gives everything, but there’s something softer in his eyes when they land on the quilt. He doesn’t comment. Neither do I.
I climb into the bed first, dragging the covers up to my chin.
The mattress dips when he follows, the weight of him a reminder of just how much space he takes up.
He lies stiff as stone, his body a solid line on the far edge, and for a moment it feels almost manageable.
Just two people, backs turned, pretending the other doesn’t exist.
“Stay on your side,” I mutter, facing the wall.
“I always do,” he answers, his voice low and even.
The quilt is heavy, but not heavy enough to stop the cold from finding the cracks.
I shift closer to the center without meaning to, chasing the faint pocket of warmth between us.
He notices. Of course he notices. I can hear the change in his breathing, steady but slower now, like he’s holding himself too tightly.
The silence stretches, thick and restless.
I close my eyes, force myself to breathe evenly, but my body won’t listen.
I’m aware of every inch of space between us, of how close his heat is, of how ridiculous this all is.
I tell myself it’s just survival, just common sense, but the beating of my heart refuses to believe me.
At some point, exhaustion wins. The storm howls, the quilt shifts, and I drift into sleep.
When I wake, it isn’t the cold that greets me. It’s warmth.
I blink against the gray light sneaking through the curtains, my cheek pressed to something solid and warm that rises and falls in a steady rhythm. For a disoriented moment, I think the lodge itself has grown a heartbeat. Then I realize where I am.
His arm is around me, heavy and unyielding, his chest solid against my back.
His breath stirs the loose strands of my hair, and my hand is curled against his wrist like I put it there on purpose.
We are tangled, closer than I ever intended, my body molded to his in a way that feels alarmingly natural.
I should pull away. I should untangle myself, put the quilt back between us, rebuild the wall we both swore would hold. But I don’t move. Not yet. Because the truth is, in this moment, I don’t feel cold, or angry, or even trapped. I feel safe. And that scares me more than the storm ever could.